epistle to el de peyster
my honor'd el, deep i feel
your i in the poet's weal;
ah! now sma' heart hae i to speel
the steep parnassus,
surrouhus by bolus pill,
and potion gsses.
o what a ty world were it,
would pain and care and siess spare it;
and fortune favour worth a
as they deserve;
and aye rowth o' roast-beef and cret,
syne, wha wad starve?
dame life, tho' fi out may trick her,
and in paste gems and frippery deck her;
oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
i've fouill,
aye wavering like the willow-wicker,
'tween good and ill.
then that curst carmagnole, auld satan,
watches like baudrons by a ratton
our sinfu' saul to get a cut on,
wi'felon ire;
syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,
he's aff like fire.
ah nick! ah nick! it is na fair,
first showing us the tempting ware,
bright wines, and bonie sses rare,
to put us daft
syne weave, uhy spider snare
o hell's damned waft.
poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
and aft, as ce he es thee nigh,
thy damn'd auld elbow yeuks wi'joy
and hellish pleasure!
already in thy fancy's eye,
thy sicker treasure.
soon, heels o'er gowdie, in he gangs,
and, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
thy girning ugh enjoys his pangs,
and murdering wrestle,
as, dangling in the wind, he hangs,
a gibbet's tassel.
but lest you think i am uncivil
to pgue you with this draunting drivel,
abjuring a' iions evil,
i quat my pen,
the lord preserve us frae the devil!
amen! amen!